Hydrangeas always were my favorite
by ohcomely23
Summary: Neal sinks to the ground slowly. When Peter thinks back to this, he'll remember how long it took for Neal to hit the ground, how many seconds it took for Peter to cross the yard to his friend, how confused Neal looked as he stumbled. But for now, all he can do is live it.


__

Neal sinks to the ground slowly. When Peter thinks back to this, he'll remember how long it took for Neal to hit the ground, how many seconds it took for Peter to cross the yard to his friend, how confused Neal looked as he stumbled.

_ But for now, all he can do is live it._

"You sure you don't need any help with that? Just say when. No one expects the g_reat_ Neal Caffrey to be perfect at everything," Peter teases. To be honest, Neal really did seem to be unnaturally good at everything, and Peter wouldn't have been surprised if Neal had some sort of special method/training/knowledge about gardening. In fact, the idea, as it was forming, was beginning to make more and more sense.

Elizabeth was with a "client from hell" (as she had described her), and Peter had wanted to surprise her by freshening her garden. Of course, Neal had dropped by and had been, for lack of a better word, aghast at the "monstrosity that was a disservice to the poor flowers". He'd insisted on helping, though his micromanaging of Peter had ended with Peter storming inside for a beer, leaving Neal and his "artistic eye" to set up the garden. "Besides," Neal had reasoned, "you look tired. Take a load off!" And so Peter had indulged in a beer and fifteen minutes of ESPN before rejoining Neal on the patio.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Stay away from the flowers—I beg of you," Neal retorts faux-seriously. Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. He sighs dramatically.

"You know, part of me feels a bit concerned that you've taken control of a project meant to woo my wife."

Now it's Neal's turn to keep a straight face.

"Oh, Peter. You underestimate me. You think I'd need all this to charm a woman?" There's a twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

Peter cocks his head. "Let me guess. You paint for her, you drink wine, you decide to pop by a museum and steal her favorite piece for her.."

Neal feigns upset. He opens his mouth to say something, maybe he does, but it's all a hum to Peter.

Peter sees the red dots before Neal ever does; hell, maybe Neal doesn't see them at all. They appear—two of them—perfectly over Neal's shirt.

_"NEAL! GET DOWN!" He wails, bellows, screams._

The sound of two _pops_ in reverberates and swirls around in Peter's brain. He is powerless.

_Neal blinks rapidly in succession. He lets in a painful gasp, a gasp that stops Peter's heart._

Neal sinks to his knees. The pain.. it's unlike anything. White-hot and cruel, burning him alive from the inside out. It is all consuming, all he can feel, all he can comprehend. And suddenly, he can't breathe. He lacks the air to cry out. He thinks he feels hands on him as he lists to his left side. It's okay. It's okay. Whose voice is that?

Peter slides to Neal, the baseball player in him coming out. Neal is on his knees, his eyes wide and horrified and seeming to glaze over already. The burn through him. Neal sways and begins to fall; Peter holds on to him and eases him to the ground, on his back, and positions him so that the young man's head is cradled in his chest. With one hand, he applies pressure to Neal's wounds, and with the other, he plucks his phone from his pocket and dials _911._ _We'll be there shortly, sir. Keep him awake. Would you like to stay on the line?_

Peter presses down on Neal's wound. He wishes he could push life own life into Neal's failing body.

_Everything feels tingly and then dull and then thereitisthereitis __**there it is**__;the pain is back with a vengeance. A thousand paper cuts. He'd take a thousand paper cuts over this. A thousand sunburns, a thousand cuts, slices, stab wounds... he'd take any of it. Take it and be grateful. Take it and say thank you._

Neal clenches his eyes shut. His hand is fisting something—a shirt?—and he bites back a scream as he dry heaves. Peter's shirt? Neal feels a hand around his wrist, circling it, grounding him. Another wave of pain.. and another held back scream. Or maybe he does cry out, because he hears the voice again, shushing him, but not in a mean way. The voice seems to be shushing him out of a desperation of not knowing what to say, not of annoyance at him or anything. Neal. Neal! It's okay, It's okay, shhh.

Neal feels the tingly feeling again, but it's different this time. He's struck with a dark clarity. He is dying. He feels the tingles and the pain seep away as they are replaced by a warmth and then a coldness.

"Cold.." he barely whispers. He holds tighter to Peter's shirt, flicking his eyes up to Peter's unrelenting gaze.  
  
"Neal?" Peter's voice is thick, strained, pained, and Neal wishes he could cheer him up.  
_"Hydrangeas… always were my favorite,"_ Neal murmurs.  
And then he fades away.

Peter can't breathe. He can't breathe, and his eyes can't look away, and nothing is alright anymore. He watches the light leave Neal's eyes- he'd never even realized such a thing could be so tangible-, feels the young man go even heavier in his arms.

Neal, his partner, his friend…

An ambulance arrives and a paramedic rushes over, and then another.  
Peter reluctantly relinquishes his grip on Neal as they look him over.

He watches in horror as one of them covers the fallen young man with a white sheet. "Call it," a paramedic says. "1:43pm."

"What are you doing? Save him! Save him!" He lunges towards Neal, but he is held back by strong arms. _Jones? When did he get here?_

"Peter. He's gone, Peter. He's gone."  
_NO._ Peter shakes his head as if that will end this nightmare.

Peter drops to his knees, unable to comprehend anything outside the fact that Neal, Neal who was _just_ helping him plant a garden for Elizabeth, is now dead? No, that can't be right. It can't.

Two paramedics lift the covered body—Neal—onto a gurney. Peter can't help himself—he's on his feet and by the gurney. It will be torture, but he needs one more look. One more look at Neal.

He peels back the white sheet and braces himself when he feels a hand on his left shoulder. He snaps around. _Neal? _

"Peter, are you alright?"

Peter jerks away from the Neal on the gurney and the Neal behind him, and everything gets blurry.

"Aare you alright?"

Peter awakens with a start. He's on the couch, and his beer is on the end table.

"Neal?" _What's going on?_

And then Neal is by his side. "Hey, you alright? Guess you were more tired than you thought. Not to worry, though. I'm almost finished, and it isn't even 2 yet."

Peter remains silent.  
"Now, are you alright? You looked like you were having a bad dream."

Peter is still trembling a bit. He sits up and stands… and then plants his hand on Neal's shoulder.  
Neal looks at him inquisitively. Peter opens his mouth as to speak, takes a breath, and just envelops Neal in a fatherly/brotherly hug, holding him close. The nightmare… it was so real.. it was…

"Hey, hey," Neal murmurs against Peter's embrace. "It's okay. It's okay." Neal isn't sure what's gotten in to Peter, though whatever it is, it must have been one hell of a dream.

Peter maintains the bear hug for an extra moment before he relinquishes his grip on the young C.I. His throat is thick, and he doesn't trust his voice just yet. Instead, he clears his throat.

Neal seems to understand this and graciously gives Peter an out. "Hey, you want to see the garden? I ended up running back to the store for some more hydrangeas. **Hydrangeas always were my favorite."**


End file.
